…Akhilleus like the implacable god of war
came on with blowing crest, hefting the dreaded
beam of Pelian ash on his right shoulder.
Bronze light played around him, like the glare
of a great fire or the great sun rising,
and Hektor, as he watched, began to tremble.
Iliad, Homer, Book XXII
(Fitzgerald’s translation)
As Achilleus snapped the helmet over his face, the bright sheen of his armor transformed him into an angry god, remote and terrible. He turned his back and walked across the courtyard, the dark red plumes in the crest of his new helmet dancing in the sunlight, and I remembered Andromache’s small cold hands in mine as I promised to prevent the very thing that was about to happen.
“Achilleus, don’t do this!” It was a weak, futile cry that he didn’t even hear. I ran forward calling out again, but he opened the gate, and a thousand battle-ready men massed outside the courtyard shouted and cheered in unison. Automedon and another man stood by Achilleus’s war chariot. Automedon climbed in and took the reins. Achilleus sprang up beside him. The other attendant handed Achilleus the huge ashwood spear.
“To battle!” Achilleus shouted. “Death to the enemy!”
The men roared. The charioteers cracked their whips over the backs of horses and wheeled about. Foot soldiers brandished spears. With a deafening clamor, Achilleus’s Myrmidons surged to the main gate.
The sounds of the departing army dwindled. I slipped to the ground and for a long time sat motionless, too gripped with dread to move. Vengeance. It mattered more to Achilleus than his own life. I remembered that I, too, had sought it once. But now I saw its emptiness and futility. It wouldn’t bring Patroklos back. My mind kept seeing the rage in Achilleus’s eyes. The death of his friend had turned him into a terrifying stranger.
I wanted to know what happened yesterday when he had learned that Patroklos was slain.
I got up and went to find Diomede. She was sitting in the women’s courtyard, forming a circle with Iphis, Kallianassa, Aglaia, and a group of others—strangers—grinding grain. I stopped. These were the women given to Achilleus by Agamemnon. Diomede was speaking, her face animated, welcoming. Of course. She too was from Lesbos, and she knew most of them.
She looked up, smiling, pushing back her red-brown curls. “Briseis, it’s good to have you back.” Her smile faded when she saw my face. “You’re very pale. Are you ill?”
“It’s nothing,” I said distractedly. “Diomede, please tell me—”
She glanced apologetically at the women. “Of course. Join us. Let me make these others known to you. This is Theano, and Halia, and…” She gestured at each one, but their names did not stick in my mind.
I sat down and put an insistent hand on her arm. “Diomede, I must know how it was yesterday—when Patroklos was killed.”
A flash of impatience was replaced by a look of sympathy. “We were talking of home, but there’ll be other times for that.” She shook her head gravely. “When Achilleus was brought the news, he gave a great cry and flung himself onto the ground. He poured handfuls of dust and ashes on his head and tore his hair.”
Iphis, looking pale and strained, said, “He reached for the knife at his belt and might have killed himself but that the Achaean who brought the news—Antilochos was his name—threw his weight on him and grabbed his hands.”
I understood, all too well, his wish for oblivion. “Then what happened?”
Diomede’s glance fell. “He said some words, but perhaps I heard wrong. I was on the other side of the fence.”
“Tell me.”
“He said, ‘Let death come. For me. For everyone. So long as Hektor dies.’ He would have rushed into the battle right then, but he had no armor. So last night he had new armor made, the smiths working all night, melting down gold and bronze vessels, and—”
But I was no longer listening. Let death come. For everyone. All his grief had turned to rage, and death had overtaken his soul.
Iphis asked suddenly, “What if Hektor wins?”
I froze in the middle of a breath. Hektor’s cold voice came back to me: I will meet him face to face. And I will kill him.
Diomede said somberly, “Then we’ll all go to new masters.”
One of the Lesbos women laughed. “For us that would mean having three masters in two days!” Her laughter scraped like sharp rocks.
“Hush, Theano!” another said. “It’s not funny. We’d probably be sent back to Agamemnon.”
That silenced them. Then one of them asked, “Tell us—what is it like here?” and the women of our camp all began talking at once.
Their voices pounded in my head. I stood up. “I’m going to the shore.”
Diomede started to rise, but I laid a hand on her shoulder. “Nay, stay and help these newcomers feel at home.”
I envied her, sitting in the circle of her friends, exchanging news and stories, almost untouched by the events of these past days. My thoughts turned to Andromache. At this moment she would be standing on the wall of the citadel holding her little boy in her arms and watching from afar as her Hektor went forth to face his enemy. She had not even slept in his arms last night, for the army of Troy had again encamped on the battlefield. Perhaps even now Hektor and Achilleus were advancing toward each other on the windy Trojan plain. I imagined Hektor’s impassioned face, his glittering black eyes. I also remembered him at his hearth that day in Troy, his face weary, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his people’s destiny.
How foolish and vain had been my promise to Andromache. Hektor’s killing of Patroklos had made this meeting with Achilleus inescapable. Failure lay on my heart with the weight of a mountain. Father Zeus, I prayed, let Hektor and Achilleus both live.
But as I remembered the look in Achilleus’s eyes, I knew my prayer was wasted. I imagined his face contorted with rage as he hurled his spear with all his mighty strength.
In the late afternoon I was near the shore when a great clamor signaled the Achaeans’ return from battle. Fighting the leaden weight of my legs, I stood up and started toward the place where we always watched the men’s return. Diomede appeared at my side. Half a league away the men poured into the encampment. I began to tremble. A swarm of men and chariots charged in our direction, dust billowing up in clouds. Soon we could pick out the leading chariot. Thundering hooves brought it closer until we could see the man next to the driver. A tall man in flashing armor, shield and spear held aloft. Four red plumes nodded from the crest of his helmet.
Diomede cried, “He’s back! He’s safe!”
A cold, terrible certainty pierced me. I turned away. “Briseis, what’s wrong?” Diomede asked. Before I could answer, she gripped my arm hard. The other hand was pressed over her mouth. “Look!”
Achilleus’s chariot swept by, dragging something. It was the torn, naked body of Hektor, attached by the feet to the back of the chariot. His neck and chest were dark crimson with blood. His eyes stared sightless at the sky, and his hair was spread behind him trailing in the dirt, no longer black but an unrecognizable gray brown, streaked with blood. His head bumped over the ruts in the ground, and his arms flopped about like broken sticks. Dust swirled around him.
I crumpled to my knees, covering my face with my hands. Thudding hooves went past me, grew faint, then increased again, passed again. Achilleus gave a fierce shout. He was leading the Myrmidons in a victory procession around their camp. I looked up just as they passed once more, and saw the body, the head to the side now, the mouth slack and open, those sightless eyes looking right at me. My stomach heaved, and I was sick.
One of the Lesbos women bent over me. “You’re with child, aren’t you? Ianeira told me.” I nodded weakly. “Perhaps you should let Diomede take you inside to lie down.”
“Briseis! Is this true?” Diomede asked. “We should tell Achilleus—”
I gripped her hands. “No! Don’t tell him!”
Diomede drew a deep breath. “Very well. But come lie down.”
She led me to my bed and put a cool cloth over my brow. “Rest. At least he’s alive, and we won’t be given to another master.” I shut my eyes, knowing this security had come at the cost of Andromache’s happiness. Silent tears ran down my temples. I wept not only for Patroklos and Hektor and poor bereft Andromache, but also for the part of Achilleus that had died when his friend was killed.
Diomede, watching me, said, “Briseis, don’t let this affect you. You’ll make yourself ill unto death.”
If I died, I thought, Achilleus wouldn’t care or even notice.
After she left, I could not close my eyes for fear of the images that would come to my mind. After some time passed, I got cautiously to my feet and crept to the door of Achilleus’s hut. I cracked it open, peered inside. No one was there. I stole across the room toward the courtyard door, barely breathing, fearing that he would be there by the body of his friend.
But the courtyard was empty of any living man. Where had he gone? From afar I heard shouts and smelled fires, smoke, cooking meat. It was the hour of the evening meal, though the normal routine was disrupted. I guessed the men were preparing some kind of feast on the shore. The women must have been pressed into doing extra chores, baking many rounds of bread and waiting on the men. The sky glowed with the dull rose of twilight. I looked out and saw something on the ground by Patroklos’s bier. At first I took it for a shadow. But it had a cold, dark substance. Chills ran over my skin. Gathering courage, I stepped outside—and stopped.
Hektor’s body was thrown face down in the dust at Patroklos’s feet.
I stood motionless, not breathing. Then I nerved myself to walk outside to the two dead men. I went to Patroklos first and looked down at his face. Forgive me, I whispered, but even though he killed you, he should not be so dishonored.
I knelt at Hektor’s side. With great effort I rolled him over. Andromache, this is where you belong. But I will tend him for you. I reached out to close his eyes.
As I looked over his body, with the gaping wound at his throat, I took a deep, steadying breath. I went into the hut and returned with water, cloths, and an old blanket. Just as I knelt down, I heard a shout close by. I froze, my heart pounding. When there was no further sound I began my work. I cleaned the soiled flesh, straightened the dead man’s hair, and covered him decently with a blanket. Lighting a lamp, I set it by his head. I hesitated. I should stay with him, holding a vigil, but I feared Achilleus finding me here.
Just as I was leaving, the courtyard gate slammed open. Night had fallen, but the lamp’s light showed Achilleus clearly. The sight of him sent a shock through me. His tunic was torn and dirty, his hair tangled, his face smeared with ashes. His limbs were streaked with blood and dust. In great furious steps he came toward me. I shrank as he towered over me, eyes blazing.
“Why are you here? I traded away Patroklos’s life—for you!” He looked down at Hektor and saw what I had done. “This one is to be left for the dogs and vultures!” He bent and stripped the blanket off the corpse.
“Achilleus, stop!” I cried. “You gave my husband Mynes a funeral pyre.”
His breaths were short, ragged. “Mynes was an honorable enemy. Hektor slew my friend.” He choked on the word. “And he would have desecrated Patroklos.”
He bent swiftly and rolled the corpse onto its face, pushing it into the dirt. Then his foot came down between the shoulder blades as if to grind the body into the ground. I gasped, one hand pressed over my mouth, too afraid to try to stop him. But he only straightened wearily, a dark shape against the night sky. He drew a deep breath and leaned over Patroklos’s bier to look into the star-washed face of his dead friend.
“Tomorrow the Achaeans will build your pyre, Patroklos, and give you a funeral with all honor. Then we will hold your funeral games.” He rested his hand gently on the dead man’s chest. “I did what I promised,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve brought you Hektor. And I’ve captured twelve Trojans alive, whom I will sacrifice at your funeral pyre.”
I went cold. “Achilleus—no!” I cried. “You can’t mean to—!”
He stared down at me. “No one shall stop me.” He seized my jaw, forcing me to look up at him. “Stay out of this, or I’ll kill you!” I held still. “Now begone!” He dropped his hand and turned away.
“Come, Patroklos,” he said in a broken voice, “they are waiting down at the shore to mourn you and hold your funeral feast.”
He picked up his friend’s corpse as tenderly as a mother cradles a newborn baby and carried it from the courtyard.
Twelve Trojans to be slaughtered! The gods would surely strike him dead for such a monstrous outrage.
